Awakenings
by pelirroja
Summary: Carlilse and Esme, how did it all begin?
1. Prologue

**First and foremost I own none of this. I am only borrowing characters created by Stephenie Meyer. I hope I have done them justice.**

**Secondly, thank you to my betareaders Alphie and Milasmith, who let me know what's missing and that commas are a good thing.**

"**There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere."**

**Jane Austen**

**Prologue Awakenings**

Nomads wander never needing to look beyond the present. We tell ourselves that there is nothing more that we need than a new horizon. After almost three hundred years, I thought I had perfected the routine of packing up my life into a neat little box every seven years and moving on.

For years I lived, or should I say functioned on my own. I had convinced myself that I didn't need companionship. Despite my convictions, I found that you can never rely too heavily on "the plan". No matter how detailed the plan, it's always subject to alteration. Edward, well, he certainly was a major alteration. He was the only time I'd allowed myself to concede that my plan had a flaw.

To save someone from death, I had to offer them more than just life. Love. Affection. Tenderness. These were not emotions unknown to me, but they were buried back in England with Elizabeth, who I lost so long ago. I told myself that I was doing my best to show these things to Edward. The reality: anything done half-way, and half-heartedly is doomed to failure. Every day I felt the son I saved drifting further away from me.

I told myself that a fresh start was all we needed. A simple answer to a simple problem. Looking back now it's ironic how much I believed that lie. Then again, the only person I was ever truly capable of lying to was myself. Oh, I could put on an act, play a role. I didn't consider those things lies. They were necessities to my survival, but sometimes I'd forget…no, not forget…again lying to myself…I wouldn't allow myself to face painful truths about the life I'd chosen for Edward and me. It was easier to assure myself that after two and a half centuries, I knew exactly what I was doing. I couldn't have been more arrogantly self-deluded if I tried.

Fortunately for me, God works in mysterious ways. When you least expect it, he turns all your plans upside down with the simplest of ease. It's all in the choices He gives you. The question is are you brave enough to risk the unknown, admit you made a mistake, and walk down a better path?

I'm getting ahead of myself, maybe I should just go back to the beginning: the morgue, the last week of work in Ashland, 1921…


	2. Chapter 1

**AN: Thank you for all your kind words regarding the prologue. For those of you who were hoping future chapters would be longer, I hope you're not disappointed. This chapter will be about the usual size for me. I'll probably update every two to three weeks or so. It will be about 10 chapters in total.**

**Thank you again to my betas Alphie and Mila who helped me revise the ending at least three times.**

_"The power of doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance."_

_Jane Austen_

Awakenings Chapter 1

There are far worse things than manning the morgue on a Friday evening, although at that moment I'm not sure that any of them occurred to me. It was best this way really. I always liked to finish things, as much as you can finish things in a life that requires you to wander. After five years, Edward and I were to move along. If I had taken rounds upstairs, inevitably I would have found myself involved in a crucial delivery, or an appendectomy, something. Getting attached to any current cases wouldn't be wise. I needed to make a clean break. I mused over what this next chapter in my life would be like.

In a couple of days Edward and I would be moving out of the cottage we shared at the edge of town and head hundreds of miles away to Pittsford, New York. There would be a similar cottage there, although I suppose it could more adequately be termed a hunting lodge rather than a cottage. It sat on several acres of land along the Niagara River. It would be serviceable enough, fully furnished in a Spartan way. It was the easier to rent furnished accommodations than to explain why we had no beds, kitchen tables, silverware, etc. when moving in.

The hospital staff in Ashland all thought I was going to Columbia University to teach. No one would think much of it if they lost contact with us in a big city, nor were any of my Ashland colleges likely to visit New York City. Soon Edward and I would be all but forgotten. Instead we would be in Pittsford, a little town in upstate New York that no one had ever heard of, and where no one would ever look for us.

Pittsford, despite its unfortunate name, was a delightful, tiny town tucked into the Adirondack woods outside of Rochester, New York. Thanks to the town's high altitude and proximity to Lake Ontario, cloudy conditions generally prevailed. In addition, thick forest provided lots of natural shade and an abundance of deer, bear, and other wildlife.

I had managed to secure myself a position at Genesee General Hospital on the outskirts of Rochester. Even though it was a small hospital, it was unusually up-to-date since it was so close to both Cornell University and the Rochester Institute of Technology. Since I'd have the night shift, there would be plenty of time to investigate and study up on the latest techniques. Any dayshifts I could easily handle by arriving early and staying indoors. Due to the cold climate, small windows were the norm. So, maneuvering around incoming sunlight while covered in a lab coat wouldn't be much of a struggle.

The move wouldn't just be good for me, but it would be better for Edward too. I had acquired Edward a position as a research assistant at Rochester Institute of Technology where they were working with herbs, molds, and fungi, such as the Penicillium fungus, which seemed to have medicinal properties. It was the type of work where he would arrive in a windowless lab before sunup and leave at twilight.

Recently Edward had been sullen and moody. He wasn't adjusting to his new life style as well as I had hoped. I was certain that he would be less gloomy once the move happened. He just needed a more mature setting and more responsibility. A change of scene would do the trick.

I couldn't bring myself to inflict high school on Edward a third time in a row. Ashland had at least had a proper high school. Edward had been challenged by a few classes not included at his former academy such as German and advanced physics. Pittsford, on the other hand, was still small enough that several grades were housed together in a modified one room school house. There would be nothing available that Edward had not already mastered. Edward might be able to pass for a boy as young as 14, but the reality was that he was a man of twenty.

I grumbled to myself as my mouth screwed up into what I was sure was a wry smile. In chronology only was Edward twenty. Maturity was another matter entirely. As the only son of wealthy parents I suspected that Edward had not been told, "no" often. Although they had managed to give him the best education that money could buy, and shower him with attention, they had taught him little about considering someone other than himself. Adapting to circumstances that were not of his choosing and making compromises were not Edward's fortes. He never meant to be deliberately unkind, but he had to learn to check his temper, especially when things did not go his way. So the lab job would be just perfect for him. It would challenge his intellect, provide him with structure, keep him busy during the day, and give him the opportunity to do something different. What more could he want?

Anyway, enough of daydreaming, I thought. I had to get back to the work at hand - as mundane as it was. I was just about to start processing the paperwork for a Jane Doe who had arrived at the beginning of my shift. Not having to breathe, I could delay such things more than the regular staff could. Until now, she had just lain there under a sheet undocumented. She had been found by the railroad tracks, likely pushed, jumped, or fallen from a passing freight train.

As I moved the sheet and looked down on the girl on the slab, I signed to myself. What a waste of a life. The girl couldn't have been much older than twenty-five. From the looks of her attire she was poor and desperate. The polite slang at the time to describe such a girl was "doorway debutante". I wondered who she had been and what had happened to her that she had fallen into such a dark life. I knew no one would claim the body even if they knew her. The stigma to the family would be too great. She would end up in Potter's Field, forgotten in an unmarked grave.

A screech of brakes suddenly caught my attention. I stiffened hoping there wouldn't be an impact. I was wrong. A dull thud followed by rough language and the slamming of doors reached my ears. Moments later, I wasn't surprised to see Todd Platner miss the counter with his check-in clipboard and teeter into the morgue. He was three sheets to the wind, again.

Since Ashland didn't exactly have a high death rate, it wasn't as if the mortuary truck driver was frequently out on the road. Most of the time he was sleeping off a bender in the truck as it was parked in the loading bay. He usually drove hung over, not intoxicated.

Another man might have worried about job security, not Todd. He had married the mayor's sister. By all accounts, before the war Todd was an average happy-go-lucky guy. Since the war he was still happy, only copious amounts of alcohol kept him that way. Todd got by on the meager salary, and his wife could save face. The entire town pretended that Todd was plagued by "headaches", which prevented him from holding a better job. This wasn't entirely untrue as he had headaches with great frequency. Only they happened after he sobered up, not when he was falling down drunk, like now. Clearly now he was feeling no pain.

"Heya Doc!" I caught Todd by the shoulders as he swayed toward me. He barely seemed to notice that his log sheets had fallen to the hard floor with a loud bang.

"Todd, how many times do I have to tell you that it isn't safe for you to be operating a motor car while…while…while you aren't feeling well." I regretted having to use the euphemism, but the politics of dealing with the town drunkard, who was also the brother-in-law of the mayor, required it.

Todd listed seriously to the right and would have fallen over if it hadn't been for me. For a second, I considered letting him fall, maybe it would teach him a lesson. "Doncha worry 'bout me, Doc. I'm fine-"

"A nasty lump on your forehead would seem to dispute that, Todd."

Todd swiped at his forehead, missing each time. I had seen an Abbot and Costello picture recently where the actors had more coordination in their pratfalls than Todd was currently displaying.

"Todd, I heard the truck hit the loading dock, and you have a rather large goose egg forming on your forehead. I really think it would be best if you went upstairs and had Dr. Kievit look you over."

"Doc, you're so good to me. You know how it is…guy's got to forget who's got troubles…"

"Come on now, Todd." I was ever so gently, but firmly aiming Todd toward the staircase. "I'll see to the truck. I could use it to carry some of my personal belongings home, and then I'll park it in its rightful spot. For all anyone need know, it could have been hit whilst it was parked."

"Thanks, Doc!" Todd called over his shoulder as he rebounded off the walls as he climbed the stairs, "I knew howd you'd 'nderstand."

Todd was three quarters of the way up the stairs when I heard him stop and call back down, "Almost forgot. Truck's not empty. You don' wanna get your stuff all mussed."

I rolled my eyes. Of course, there would be a body in the truck. Leave it to Todd to omit the finer details to get him out of work. I scooped up the clipboard that was on the floor and glanced over the paperwork. Esme Evenson. Age 26. Teacher. Apparent suicide. Several witnesses watched her jump from a cliff in Brookside Park. Landed on rocks thirty feet below. Identified by neighbor who happened to be in park. Noted that she had been despondent since death of infant son.

So much for my uneventful night in the morgue, now I had two bodies to check in. The only difference was that someone would surely claim Esme Evenson's. Given that she had jumped off a cliff, however, it was unlikely that an open coffin would be an option. I grabbed a gurney and meandered out to the truck, it wasn't as if time was of the essence.

As soon as I opened the doors of the truck, it hit me. In hospitals, and especially in morgues, people talk about there being a lingering odor of death. For me it was always the opposite. Although I had long ago learned to master my thirst, the first thing I detected was always the scent of life. Right now there was a faint, yet unmistakable aroma emanating from the back of the morgue truck letting me know that a horrid mistake had been made!

Instinctively, I lifted the presumed lifeless body of Esme Evenson and rushed her into the morgue. From the blood caked all over her body, the concave shape of her ribcage, and the impossible angle of her legs, I doubted there was anything I could do. With injuries this severe no wonder people had assumed she was dead. I was stunned that she was still clinging feebly to life after what had to be a bumpy ride in the morgue truck. Only someone like me could have told the difference. Regardless of her condition, or how that condition came about, no one deserved to die alone in the back of a morgue truck. Even if her death were inevitable, she deserved to die with some dignity.

She didn't utter a sound as I placed her on a vacant table. I held her hand, feeling the last bit of life slowly draining from her. Her heart had slowed to almost imperceptible beats. Shallow breaths were coming at barely a minute apart. No wonder the rescuers hadn't realized that she was still alive, and even if they had, what could they have done? Though the entire left side of her face was marred and bruised, caramel colored hair and ivory skin let me know she had once been quite pretty. How completely tragic for one so young to lose hope. I pushed her matted hair back from the rest of her face and couldn't believe what, or rather whom I saw.

It had been ten years, the face was more mature, but Esme Platt, as had known her, lay dying before me. How could this be? The bright, shy, yet vivacious teenager that I had known in Columbus had lost hope so badly that she had tried to kill herself. Where was the girl with ambition who wanted to be a painter and live in Paris? Where were her doting, to the point of suffocating, parents? Her name on the chart was Evenson, where was her husband? Was there no one who cared for her? How was any of this possible? There were too many unfathomable questions and no one able to answer them.

Questions that continued to roar in my head were soon interrupted by a single thought: what a waste, what a complete and utter waste. The next thing I knew, my thoughts turned into action. I hadn't planned a thing, but with immediate clarity I rapidly made a series of decisions. There was no time to think everything through properly. Although I rarely did so, I acted on raw instinct. With lightning speed I took actions that would forever have a lasting impact on my life, and by default, Edward's.

The Jane Doe's paperwork had never been done. She was about the same age and build as Esme. They had similar injuries. If I didn't log her in, no one would ever know that she existed. I could easily substitute one body for the other and no one would be the wiser. The only person, besides me, who knew how many bodies had been brought to the morgue was Todd. Todd had trouble remembering where he lived most days. He was unlikely to notice anything beyond the rim of his flask. Even if he suddenly found sobriety, no one would ever believe him if he accused me of losing a body of a Jane Doe. Ashland authorities would have a substitute body to bury for Esme Evenson. The unlogged Jane Doe would now, in turn, have a decent burial. Injuries this severe would dictate a closed casket. No questions would be asked; the switch would remain undetected. With a quick stroke of my pen, I altered the records. Jane Doe became Esme Evenson.

Next, I grabbed a bottle of chloroform and several cotton gauze pads from the supply cabinet. Fortunately, surplus supplies were stored in the basement. If I was going to do this I couldn't risk her awakening. I reassured myself that she wouldn't be in agony, the chloroform would stop that.

Lastly, I again lifted Esme into my arms and carried her back to the truck. There was no turning back. I had learned a little from changing Edward. I could be more exact, spare her some of the pain. She had lost so much blood, perhaps it wouldn't be three days. I lied to myself, surely with one so on the brink it might be a matter of hours.

I would take her to the cottage. The change could transpire there. Except, I'd have to begin the process here; she'd never be able to endure the ride to the cottage. I laid her in the back of the truck, applied the chloroform, and closed the doors behind us.

I uttered a stifled scream of frustration. This change had to happen more rapidly. I couldn't afford for the venom to work its way through her body slowly with one bite. She'd certainly be dead before the venom fully took its paradoxical effect: taking life as it healed and gave life. It was infuriatingly ironic. Ten minutes ago I was contemplating how I had all the time in the world. Now, time was my enemy.

I could feel my hands shaking. I had only done this once before with one bite. It had been impossibly difficult to resist the exquisite temptation back then to drink. How do you deny your body what it instinctively wants to do? It's like telling a drowning man to wait, that he mustn't breathe. It's one thing to change a person when you have never tasted human blood. It is another thing entirely when you know what lies ahead. This time I knew. Blissful ignorance was long gone.

When I changed Edward, I had lied to myself. Staying in control would be effortless. How could I crave something I'd never had? Something that repulsed me in my soul? How wrong I had been. One bite and I had had to flee the room to avoid succumbing to what I was.

I felt every muscle in my body tighten as a shuddering breath came from Esme. Could I really do this? Could I manage to stay in control while inflicting multiple bites? If I couldn't resist the urge to fully satiate my thirst, I was sure of one thing. I'd not only destroy her, but me as well. I'd never be able to live with myself if I took a human life.

I couldn't stall any longer. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and said a silent prayer. Venom flooded my mouth as I began, for the second time in my life, the unthinkable.

I bit

and bit,

and bit…


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Once again I have to thank my wonderful betas Mila and Alphie. Also, if you haven't yet visited the official twilight fanfic site, please do. You can find the link in my profile. This chapter is from Esme's point of view because Carlilse isn't the only one in need of awakening.

"If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences."

Jane Austen

It could have been three days, three hours, or three minutes since my son had died. I didn't register time anymore. All that surrounded me was an abyss of emptiness. I couldn't think in full sentences, only stray words and images.

Worthless.

Idiot.

Incompetent.

Foolish.

Immature.

I had been called all those things by my parents and husband. I couldn't deny any more that they were right. I had irrefutable proof. My child was dead; and it was my fault. A good mother would have seen the fever starting sooner. A good mother would have stayed with her husband. A good mother would have swallowed her pride and taken her own mother's advice. No, I stubbornly thought I could take care of my child myself, and now my child had paid the price for my foolhardiness. The truth was there, plain to see.

I wandered the streets of Ashland not caring. My only future had lain in taking care of my child and giving that child a better life, and now at twenty-six my life was over. I never would amount to anything. I wasn't capable of taking care of myself, let alone an innocent child. No one would ever want me again. The onslaught of judgmental words pounded incessantly in my head.

Imprudent.

Rash.

Selfish.

Ingrate.

I was a woman who had left her husband. It simply wasn't done. If a man left his wife, it was her fault for driving him out. If a woman left her husband, she was suffering from the delusions of insanity at best or was a harlot at worst. The fact that I knew the truth lay in neither of those stereotypes didn't matter. That was how society would judge me.

Shrew.

Witch.

Hussy.

Ashland society would assume that I'd go back to my parents. What was there to keep me in Ashland now? Only I couldn't go back. They would shun me. It didn't matter that my husband had beaten me. They had already clearly let me know it was my fault for not pleasing him. Going back to Charles was impossible. I had deprived him of his only child and now that child was dead. No one would ever want anything to do with me. All I could bring upon them would be disgrace, shame, and the vicious whispers of gossip.

Divorcee.

Jezebel.

Whore.

How I got to the park or the cliffs, I don't remember. There I was high on a precipice, with clean air, and a new vantage point. In retrospect, it must have been some part of me, who I really was, trying desperately trying to break through. A part that wanted to say, "Remember who you are. Remember the girl you were. Find your spirit again."

When I was younger, I used to climb trees with my sketch pad to escape when the pressures of doing what was expected of me became too great. No one then knew of my heart's desires. If I tried to express wanting to be a painter, I was scoffed at and scolded. Whenever I tried to explain, my words would jumble. How do you explain your heart's desire to people who never hear anything except what they want to hear? They don't allow for anyone to have desires beyond their own thoughts.

Standing on the cliff, remnants of who I really was started to come back to me. For the first time in three days, I felt the wind and sun on my face. I remembered how it felt to be so high and alive, and to know who I was. I didn't want to lose that. I knew if I left the cliff and tried to go back to life in Ashland, Columbus, or anywhere I would. I would die hollow and empty.

If my death was inevitable, then let it be here in a place where I could at least _feel_. I couldn't go back to that empty shell. A place where I merely existed and didn't really live. I walked back from the edge, turned, and then took a running leap of faith. Whatever awaited me couldn't possibly be any worse than returning to a half-life in Ashland.

Terror doesn't begin to describe the feeling of falling. When you've managed to mess up every other aspect of your life, you're terrified that you'll fail at ending it too.

_Slap_. A stray branch cut across my face.

_Crack. _Landing on a ledge then teetering over onto another.

_Crunch._ Feeling my ribs collapse under pressure.

_Bang_. White hot pain everywhere

_Thump._ Can't think.

_Thump._ Head over heels.

_Thud. _No words.

It was done.

Blackness at last.

Pain. Unbearable, gut-wrenching pain wracked every nerve in my body. Needles. Knives. I couldn't scream. I tried to move and I felt a hand with a cloth at my mouth. A man in a white coat. A doctor. I had been brought to a hospital.

"NO! NO!" My mind screamed what my mouth couldn't. Let me die. Let me have my freedom. I wanted to push and fight, but my body was leaden.

My head spun. More pain spread up and down my arms and legs emanating from my sides, slowly burning across my ribcage. As soon as I tried to move any limb, there was another stab followed by a burning, a flame from within. It was as if my body was turning in on itself. How appropriate, I deserved this hellfire. I had done the unthinkable and now I was undoubtedly banished to suffer this torture the rest of my life.

Again, I fought in vain to struggle against my misguided rescuer. I found the cloth returned to my face, and I drifted off into a hazy blackness. When I had moments of lucidity, I couldn't see clearly. There were fuzzy images only. I was vaguely aware of being in a bed. How, how was any of this possible?

There were two voices. They argued with each other.

"No, I don't understand. Why her? Why now?"

"I don't fully understand it myself, Edward," This voice I could almost place. He spoke as if he really knew me, not like a doctor with a patient. His voice had the faintest traces of a British accent as he continued, "Regardless, what is done is done, and we'll both have to help Esme to transition. There is no other choice."

"Choice? What about _her _choices?" It was the other voice now. The accent was American, Midwestern like mine, only male. He sounded young, like one of my former students. "Did you ever think that maybe you took away her choice, what she wanted?"

I thought, "Yes! That's it. He understands!" The second voice expressed exactly what I had been thinking. My mind pleaded for the first man to listen.

"That's a rather manipulative thing for you to do, Edward, invade a desperate woman's thoughts. I would have thought you above that. Not everything we think at a given time is what our heart of hearts really wants. Thoughts betray raw emotion. If we acted on our every thought, most of mankind would be dead. What's in people's hearts is so much more important than their thoughts. The heart is where the real self lies."

That voice was so familiar, so philosophical. More than that, it was someone who understood. Only once had I ever met someone who had expressed things in quite that way.

"But I can't help hearing her thoughts. I can't block out a mind this close anymore than you can block out the need to drink blood. Maybe we don't drink human blood, but we still drink it. We can't just turn that off."

"No, Edward," the British voice calmly corrected, "being a vampire does give you certain gifts. You can't deny their existence, but it's how you choose to act upon those gifts that defines you as a person."

Drinking Blood? Reading Minds? Vampires? It had to be the pain clouding my mind. I struggled to raise my head. I wished that I could just fight through the pain enough to get a clear look at their faces.

"Person? Is that what I am, Carlisle?" Edward scoffed.

I was now completely convinced I was going insane. It had to be the power of suggestion. I had been thinking that the British man's tone and manner of expressing himself was so much like Carlisle Cullen, and now the younger man had called him "Carlisle".

"Yes, Edward. A person. We may not be human, but we are still people with free will to make choices. We are not animals."

"Funny you mention the word 'choice'. Isn't that what you just took away from her?"

"Yes, you may accuse me of being a hypocrite because I took away Esme's choice for death. I'm not perfect, as you have well pointed out. I made my choice, a choice I will undoubtedly have to answer for one day. The difference is that my motivation was to stop a life from being wasted. It wasn't-"

"Self-serving," I could hear the shame in Edward's voice, "I'm sorry, Carlisle, of course you're right. It's just that it was so sudden. I was just thinking of myself."

I struggled to raise myself up onto one arm, and squinted. Again, "Carlisle". It was no mistake; he had said "Carlisle" twice. It wasn't as though the younger man had said John, or Peter. He had clearly said "Carlisle". How many people could have that name? My vision momentarily cleared and there he was plain as day, Dr. Carlisle Cullen leaning over me and placing me back down on the bed. A foul smelling cloth again crossed my face and clarity dimmed. Carlisle Cullen, with a British accent? Vampires? Hallucination? I had to be hallucinating.

Columbus 1911

For the last two days I had lain in a hospital bed with my leg in a sling elevated at a harsh angle. I had climbed a tree with my sketchpad and when I tried to stop the breeze from rattling my paper, I had lost my balance and come tumbling down to the ground. A good hour had gone by before anyone had found me. Now, if I coughed or sneezed, the sudden jostling would shake my leg. It was no use trying to stop the involuntary movement, it was impossible. Then my leg only hurt more. So, when my father came into my room with my mother to berate me for the second day I held the tears back even though the pain was unbearable. I couldn't, I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

"Just unacceptable, unladylike, immature behavior, and a willful streak a mile wide. That's what landed you here, young lady!" My father had been going on this way for a good ten minute clip.

"Now Andrew-"my mother tried to come to my defense but was soon interrupted.

"Be still, Mary," my father snapped at her with a look in his eye that we all knew. It was the look that said the back of his hand would soon be felt if we persisted, "If you had done your job and properly curbed her as you should have, this wouldn't have happened. I don't know what possessed me to listen to you. I left things in your hands and here we are. I allowed you to spare the rod and we have the predicable result of a spoilt child," Although he was still screaming at my mother, my father turned to me. His hand rested on his belt buckle. The threat was clear, "A good whipping is what she deserves. I told you to make it abundantly clear to her that climbing trees, hopping fences, and the like were off limits. Obviously, you can't be trusted to convey a simple directive. So help me if she weren't lying in this hospital bed I would have put her here--"

My mother acquiesced. She always acquiesced when my father raised his voice. "I'm sorry Andrew, you're right. I know I should have done more, but I can't watch her every minute. She's sixteen and old enough to appreciate the consequences of her actions. Perhaps she has at least learned her lesson and will behave as a lady should."

It didn't matter; I was used to it. I was a disappointment to them both. I was not enough of a lady, too smart for my own good, and any number of other things they told me on a regular basis. I clawed the sheets, my hands hidden under the blanket, I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. No matter how much I hated them talking about me this way I wouldn't cry.

"Regardless of what she's done, Andrew, we can't let that affect the rest of the day. You have to be at the town council meeting, and unless we leave right now, we'll be late." My mother was gently tugging my father's arm.

My father adjusted his collar and grabbed his hat. "I can't be late for the council meeting. There's too much going on that's important this week that needs my attention. I can at least do some good for the mayor. At council meetings people seem to eventually listen to reason, unlike this one," he put on his hat and turned to go out the door with my mother. Before he did, however, he turned and fired one last shot, "It serves you right that your leg is never going to be the same after this. You'll have a reminder of just what this pigheadedness has cost you."

The door to my room closed and I burst into tears. Sobs wracked my body causing more pain. It didn't matter I just couldn't hold back any longer. It was so unfair, but maybe they were right. If I would just have listened I wouldn't be a cripple.

I didn't hear the door open. "Miss Platt, what's the matter? I didn't think your leg would be causing you this much pain today," Dr. Cullen gently held my leg as he examined the bandages. I blinked and looked into the handsome face of Dr. Cullen, the doctor who normally took charge of patients after hours. Unlike the doctors on the day shift, he always seemed to have a little more time. He usually asked me how I was feeling and really seemed to care about the answer. The rest of the doctors were colder. It was as if I was just a number to them, a being attached to a chart.

"Please don't bother about me. I'm sure there are other people who need you more," I stuttered through my tears. Even though he had always treated me kindly, he couldn't change the inevitable. There was nothing about my leg that kindness would solve,

"Miss Platt, you're my patient, not a bother. And at the moment I'm rather concerned about what's distressing you," He looked up from examining my leg and smiled invitingly.

Such kindness was too much, I blubbered, "My father just told me that I'm going to be a cripple."

Dr. Cullen abruptly stopped examining my leg all together, and turned to me with a harsh, "What? Your father told you what?"

"That I'm never going to be the same again," I sobbed.

Hi eyebrows furrowed into a displeased knot as he spoke, "Miss Platt, far be it for me to contradict a parent, but that is patently untrue."

"It's all right, you don't have to pretend," I sniffled. I could only partially see him through my tears. My face was turned to my pillow.

Dr. Cullen pulled over a chair and sat beside me so he could look me right in the eye. "Miss Platt, you look like a bright young woman to me. Do you know what the Hippocratic Oath is?"

This threw me off guard. My tears had been subsiding anyway, but now they stopped all together. "I think I read about it in a book. Isn't it a vow that doctor's take when they get their medical degree?"

"Something like that", Dr. Cullen warmly replied before continuing, "Do you know what the oath specifically says?"

I nodded my head "no".

"It says among other things: 'I will apply measures for the benefit of the sick according to my ability and judgment; I will keep them from harm and injustice.' Allowing you to believe that you are going to be crippled would be a grave injustice. I can't promise that your bones aren't going to ache a bit when it rains, but I have a feeling you'll be able to climb trees again with the best of them in no time." He paused there a second before he continued, "Oath or no oath, I would never lie to you. In general, I despise lying. As far as I'm concerned, it causes more harm than anything else in this world."

I stared at him open mouthed. No adult had ever talked to me like I was his equal, contradicted my father, or encouraged me to climb trees.

He continued to smile benevolently as he went on, "The oath says a few more things too: 'What I may see or hear in the course of the treatment or even outside of the treatment in regard to the life of men, which on no account one must spread abroad, I will keep to myself, holding such things shameful to be spoken about.' What that means, Miss Platt, is that whatever I tell you or you tell me is kept confidential. It looks to me right now like you could use a doctor and a friend," he paused there, smiled wryly, and tapped the toe of my uninjured leg, "So why don't we start things off on a better foot?

I laughed at his pun. It was impossible not to. It hurt, but I still laughed; I didn't mind.

"Good, glad to see I have you in better spirits. Now, I'd like it very much if we could drop some of this formality. I know that your first name is Esme. May I call you Esme?"

Again I nodded, only this time "yes".

"Excellent. It seems only fair then that you can call me by my first name as well, which is Carlisle. And though Dr. Cullen might advise you not to be careless when you climb, I confess Carlisle would like to know why you were up there, because there had to be a good reason. I've climbed trees myself and there's always a purpose."

Now I was really stunned. Finally someone who seemed to understand a bit about me, and best of all whatever I said couldn't be repeated to my parents! "Well, Doct…I mean Carlisle…"

For the next several hours, I told him everything: my father's temper, my mother's smothering expectations, how I wanted to be an artist, how my parents expected me to marry well…everything.

For the month I was in the hospital, Carlisle came every day to talk with me. On my last day, just before I left to go home, he told me that he was moving on as well. He had gotten a position in Chicago and would be leaving Columbus.

The last thing he said to me was, "Take care of yourself, Esme. Don't ever stop reaching for your dreams. Nothing worth having ever comes easily. Don't give up and you'll find what you truly want."

I never forgot him. I had fallen hopelessly in love and he never knew. Even if he did know, I was sixteen and he was a man in his late twenties. I compared every man I ever met from that day forward with Carlisle Cullen. Unfortunately, no matter how long I looked or waited, I never met his equal. Resigned that I had romanticized our relationship to an impossible level, I gave up my dreams; I listened to my parents' wishes; I married Charles; I ruined my life.

A door closing snapped me back into the present. The burning pain was gone. I wiggled my fingers and toes and wasn't met with stabbing pain. I could feel my body again. My limbs were no longer leaden, buy they felt different - heavier, fuller, denser, it was hard to explain. I looked at my hands and fingers and then I touched them to my face. I didn't see or feel any scarring.

I opened my eyes and saw that I was in a small, sparse room. There was desk covered in books, a chair with a suit jacket slung over the back, a window, and the bed in which I lay. The sheets were crisp and firm. Clearly they were fresh, but it went beyond good laundering. It was as though they had never been used.

I sat up and noticed I was wearing a clean and simple muslin nightgown. Hesitantly, I put my feet on the cold floor. I stood up, gingerly at first, and much to my surprise, my knees didn't buckle. They supported my full weight, so I took a few steps toward the window. It was partially open, and the curtains blew in the breeze.

When I looked out, I could tell the house was set well back from the road. Even though the glass wasn't that clean, I could see that it was a beautiful, sunny day. The dirty glass and a shade tree kept the glare of the sun from fully entering the room.

I grabbed the bottom of the window and gave it a firm shove to push it fully open. As soon as I did that several things happened in rapid succession. The window came out of its frame and almost crashed to the ground below. Somehow I caught it and supported all its weight with one hand, but as the window dangled precariously in my hand, the breeze caused the tree to sway and my hand was touched by a patch of sunlight. Unbelievably, it glistened as though it had been bejeweled. The chain reaction continued as I gasped in fright, promptly dropping the window. The sound of it smashing below didn't shock me nearly as much as the realization that up until then I had been holding my breath. The sweet smell of the outdoors invaded the room along with another scent, a powerful one that I couldn't quite place. I was instantly filled with a longing to find the source of that scent and to consume it.

I could see, hear, feel, and move. I knew I wasn't hallucinating even though the impossible was happening. The door to the room flew open and somehow it didn't shock me that Carlisle Cullen, of all people, stood in the doorway. He looked not a day over twenty five, yet surely by now he had to be close to forty. The same warm face I knew ten years ago greeted me. Even though he struggled to conceal it with a nonchalant, "I see you're up. How are you feeling?" I could tell he was concerned.

I didn't know where to begin. What was I supposed to say? Nothing, absolutely nothing in my life could have prepared me for this moment. Finally, I managed one thing, although I instantly regretted my phrasing upon seeing how it pained Carlisle to answer.

"This time, I'm not ever going to be the same again, am I?"

Ten years might have passed, but time doesn't change certain things. Carlisle Cullen still couldn't lie. He shook his head in resignation: No, simply no.


	4. Chapter 3

AN: First I want to thank everyone who has patiently waited for me to update this story. This summer was a lot more hectic than I ever bargained for. Rest assured I am not abandoning this story; I love Carlisle and Esme too much to do that.

Secondly, sometimes the characters just take over. I think I started and restarted this chapter about three times. I even lost an early draft entirely (only two pages) in a major computer crash at work. Regardless, I think it's a good thing because the final result, in my opinion, is much better than where I originally intended to go.

Last, I have to once again thank my wonderful betas Alphie and Mila.

Now on to chapter three with a bit of a homage paid to Stephenie Meyer's writing as well.

"She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older - the natural sequence of an unnatural beginning."

Jane Austen

I walked out of Genesee General and looked up at the orange sky. Twilight at last, I could finally go home. I had to go in during daytime hours every so often, and these last two weeks had been spent covering the shifts of a vacationing doctor. I had perfected the fine art of staying away from windows and direct light. Fortunately, in early 1900's when the hospital was built, the bright and airy look was not a popular one. The frigid Adirondack winters kept institutions from installing too many windows. The last thing they needed was the heat to leak out, and their money for the coal bill to leak right out with the heat. Now that it was 4:00, I could manage the trip to the parking area safely. I could avoid the sun while indoors, but the cars were in direct light for most of the day.

As I crossed to my car, I smiled to myself. Working days had an unexpected advantage. It gave me free nights to spend with Esme. We had really grown to know each other much deeper each evening over the last two weeks. Hours of uninterrupted conversations on the recently built porch swing had become our routine after Edward went off to work.

Once Edward would leave for work, we would eventually find ourselves on the swing having a nightly catching-up party. There was so much about her life that I wanted to understand. Slowly she opened up to me about what had happened to her in the ten years since I had last known her. She didn't like to think about much of her past. Her parents had systematically destroyed her self-confidence and what little she retained was literally beaten out of her by the brute she had been coerced into marrying. I found myself remembering events long ago from my youth in England. Things weren't that different in my own house. My own father was just as pigheaded as her parents, zealots not being known for their tolerance. He had ruled my life with an iron hand and leather strop.

It wasn't all unpleasant memories, though. We'd sit and swing, and talk about classic art and architecture, which we discovered was a mutually shared passion. Esme wanted to hear all about Florence and Rome and the art I'd seen first hand of DaVinci and Michelangelo. We'd talk about music, we both loved an eclectic mix, but favored the melodies of Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Straus. Unlike her, however, I hadn't been subjected to a decade and a half of unwanted piano lessons. She'd actually tried to interest me in modern music, but I was hopeless there. Jazz didn't appeal.

No matter what we were discussing somehow Esme would always work the conversation around to what I was feeling. How was my work was going? Did I like what I was doing? Did I feel like I was making a difference? Could anything be done to make it better? Conversations with Edward, weren't really conversations. They were more like quips on a telegram. It was hard to have any discussion with someone who answered, "I know" to everything you said. It was different and really nice to have someone take an interest I my life again, and not know what my answers were ahead of time. I'd forgotten what that was like.

Esme was reawakening a keenness in me to spend some extra effort at work so I'd have something interesting to tell her about that night. Wistfully, I realized I had been shutting myself off from much of the world, and living a half-life. The last person to take such an interest in what I did was my fiancée, Elizabeth, and when she died I had stopped caring. I had thrown myself blindly into my father's work. With her subtle but probing questions, Esme made me see that after I was transformed the pattern continued. Blindly I threw myself into the role of the doctor, the role of saving others from death. In reality, I was the one who was dead to much of what went on around me. Only in the recent past had I let others like Edward and Esme into my life, and I was starting to see that I had barely let them in at all.

I realized that I hadn't to do more for Edward. I knew I loved him as a son, but I had trouble showing it. I wanted a deeper relationship with him. Plus, I wanted him and Esme to get along so badly and to make the connection that she and I were now sharing. Unfortunately, I was somewhat clueless on how to balance the role of authority figure, spiritual guide, and caring father given that my own father had been seriously lacking in those skills himself. The result was that I had a moody son who could be generous one moment and completely self-absorbed the next.

Edward could go from caring and sympathetic to sarcastic and snide at the drop of a hat. There were times when I thought he and Esme were finally managing to get along. I'd find them talking about the latest in music: Gershwin and Cole Potter, Cole Peter…somebody. They seemed to have found a mutual appreciation there. One of them was always humming some tune or another. However, it never lasted. The next moment, Edward would be grumbling at the gramophone about how there was no decent music in the house. And for some inexplicable reason this seemed to be my fault, even though he was perfectly capable of purchasing the music of his choice with his salary.

Additionally, puzzling things happened over literature. Esme and Edward were both great readers with similar tastes. Esme had hooked Edward on a new author, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and his debut novel _This Side of Paradise_. Edward seemed to really relate to Fitzgerald. Esme told me they had similar childhood backgrounds. This shared interest was lovely, until I found them arguing over who lost Fitzgerald's follow-up novel, entitled _The Beautiful and the Damned_. Oh, the irony! Neither would admit to the soggy, ink smeared copy I found outside by the porch steps.

Yesterday, I was thrilled when I'd come home to find them actually having a civil debate about Shakespeare's heroines. Edward was partial to Juliet and Ophelia. Esme just laughed and said they were a bit too high-strung for her. She preferred Viola from _Twelfth Night_ or Isabella from _Measure for Measure_. I even joined in on the conversation siding with Edward, and laughing that Esme considered those two not high-strung. Edward went off to work with a polite, "Let's agree to disagree." Esme and I spent the rest of that night on the porch swing in lively discussion. Esme finally won me over, proving to me that they weren't high-strung at all, rather "human, and capable of more than they believed when challenged". I hated to leave her and go into work, but I had to end the conversation to get in before sunup.

As I pretended to be too irritated to eat, I discussed my perplexing situation of dealing with "my brother" and "my wife" with one of my colleges, Dr. Jack Norton. He had six children of his own; surely he could offer some insight. Sadly, all he managed to tell me was that, "young men don't come with predicable behavior patterns, if they did, half of literature as we know it wouldn't exist."

As I headed to my car, I found myself stopped by Dr. Norton, who was also leaving for the day.

"Carlisle, I've been giving some thought to your family situation."

"Well, if you have a suggestion, Jack, I'm all ears, believe me."

"I know that you and Edward each want to make a good impression at work, and that you've both been working long hours. Now, don't get me wrong, it's commendable that two young men like yourselves understand that being new to a community means you have to make a good impression. I'm sure you've done your best to be a father figure to your brother since your parents passed on; however, all work and no play is, to use a cliché, making Carlisle and Edward dull and cranky boys. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I bet this has forced your wife into the position of referee."

I nodded my head. Jack certainly did seem to have valid points, even if our family connections weren't what he said. I wasn't trying to be just a father _figure_ to Edward, but an actual father. Esme and I were…well, we were…getting along...regardless, the question was how to solve this.

"Additionally, Carlisle, after thirty years of marriage, my wife is accustomed to putting up with my long and unpredictable hours. She's found all sorts of things to do to busy herself during the days when I'm not around. Your wife is different, Carlisle. I know you told me she likes music and to read, but even if she has mastered Braille as well as you say she has, there has to be a fair amount of boredom she faces being alone at home all day. You need to get her and Edward out of the house so they aren't getting on each other's last raw nerve. The Pittsford Orchestral Society gives free concerts by the lake each Friday evening. Why don't you pack a picnic and attend the one tonight?"

I thanked Jack for his advice, and then winced as I got in my car. Jack had referenced one of the many lies I had been forced to tell to cover our existence. When we had first come to Pittsford, I had insisted that Esme wear a pair of dark glasses and pose as blind. It was the easiest way to conceal her newborn, blood-red eyes. I realized I had given everyone the impression that I left my disabled wife at home with little to do as my brother and I worked to support the family. I didn't like lying, but it was a necessary part of survival.

As I drove home, I thought about what Jack had said. Even though he didn't have all the facts, there was some truth to what he said. Esme busied herself during the days in a number of ways: washed and mended our clothes, cleaned the house, organized the furnishings, and suggested new ones, like the porch swing. While she did entertain herself with reading, music, and sketching, she certainly was cooped up on our property by herself. Edward and I, on the other hand, were at least were able to get into town for a little variety every day.

So far, Esme had shown no signs of being the wildly thirsty, young vampire that Edward had been. She was always, even when involved in a row with Edward, in seemingly perfect control. Perhaps an outing was in order. I was still debating the idea in my head when I pulled up the long drive to our remote house. I gritted my teeth, got out of the car, and gingerly the door. Yet another disagreement was in full force.

Nothing prepared me for what I saw. Before Esme had come to stay with us, I admit Edward and I had been a bit careless with our belongings. Clutter tended to amass at alarming rates. Esme uncomplainingly tended to pick up after us. There were no longer dirty socks, test tubes, opera records, and the ilk strewn about. Everything now was reasonably in place, or at least the clutter was limited to the dining room table and beds because we didn't use those for anything. Today was a different matter. The house currently looked like it had been hit by the 1906 San Francisco earthquake, and with all the stomping around going on it felt like it too.

"Things just don't disappear, Esme!" roared Edward, his voice emanating from the dining room.

"It has-s-s to, be here," Esme stuttered. The rest of her reply was drowned out as Edward swore.

A pile of linens came flying in to the hallway and landed at my feet.

"I…I never claimed they did," Esme sounded frantic.

I entered the dining room to witness Edward yanking drawer after drawer out of a hutch, tossing their contents aside. He dropped to his knees among the newly flung debris. He was searching for God knows what like a man possessed.

Both Esme and Edward were oblivious to the fact that I was standing in the archway slack jawed. Before I could say anything Esme had sunk to her knees beside Edward.

"Here, slow…slow down," she tried in vein to stop the made whirlwind of destruction. As soon as she picked something up Edward ripped it out of her hands, "Edward, let me help you-"

"I don't want your help! You've done more than enough!" a fistful of unused spoons that came with the house flew across the room imbedding themselves in the opposite wall like shrapnel.

The only reason I hadn't stepped in was that I was as shocked as Esme. In all my time with Edward I had never seen a tantrum of this proportion. Perhaps, now, in retrospect, it wasn't shock, but was divine plan. Sometimes our best teachers are ourselves and our own actions. We have to let those actions transpire, or better said, God stops others from interfering so those actions can transpire.

Edward grabbed for Esme's sketchpad and box of pencils. Esme struggled to hold onto them as Edward ripped them from her hands tearing the papers. Pencils clattered to the floor as they and the book landed out of Esme's reach. The wounded cry that leapt from Esme's lips at the loss of her art was nothing compared to what happened next.

"What on earth is going on here?" I inquired, incredulously looking at Edward since Esme's back was to me, "Edward, pick-".

"Carlisle, she lost-"

I never got a chance to reply. Edward knew exactly what was racing through my mind regarding his completely unacceptable behavior. In his frustration, Edward picked up the pencils by gathering them up in a clenched fist. From my angle, the motion was swift, but his intention was obvious; Edward only meant to hand the items back to Esme, albeit in a less than gentlemanly fashion.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Esme's scream was primal, deafening.

Her perspective was different. I didn't need Edward's gift to know what Esme thought. She was huddled into a tight ball, trembling. Her left hand protected her eyes and face, while her right was tentatively extended to ward off an incoming blow.

Chaos halted. All action froze. Silence. Complete horrified silence. Never mind being able to hear a pin drop, you could hear the grass growing outside.

They say that your children grow up in the blink of an eye. In that instant, I watched my son become a man. It was all there on his face to see: regret, shame, self-disgust, and how much thoughtlessness and insensitivity he had to make up for. More importantly, as I would soon find in the coming days, was the realization that he was capable of empathy, selflessness, and love.

It was Edward who spoke first, unfreezing that dreadfully perfect moment in time.

"Esme," he said softly, "I'm so sorry. I'd never, ever strike you. I know I have no right to ask this, but please, believe me." He turned to me, desperation in his eyes, "Carlisle, you know I would never-"

"It's all right, Edward," I bent down, put my arm around him and brought him to his feet, "I know you're not capable of anything as sinister as that. She knows it too; just give me a moment with her. Why don't you wait outside, I think we could all use a drive in a minute to clear our heads. Can you wait there for us?"

Edward nodded. Before he left the room I saw a look of blessed relief flood his face. He turned toward Esme who was still on the floor, but no longer hunched over in a defensive ball. Their eyes locked. Hesitantly he reached out his hands to her. She gently took them one at a time, and Edward lifted her to her feet. They stood there like that for a moment holding hands and gazing at each other, no words passing between them before Esme drew Edward to her for a forgiving hug.

"I think we both regret a lot of things, Edward," Esme began, "Neither of us has the power to undo the past, but let's just start over from here and have a fresh beginning, okay?" She pulled back from him and lovingly brushed his hair out of his downcast eyes. "Wait outside, I'll be out there in a minute and we'll talk some more later."

Edward smiled feebly and left the room pausing once to look over his shoulder at us before continuing out the door. Esme grasped my hand as we both looked after him. Somehow it was as if we both knew he'd be okay. We didn't need to say anything there was just a wordless communication between us.

"Are you truly all right?" I inquired. I exhaled slowly; I had forgotten to breathe. Strange sensations I hadn't experienced in years were happening. There was a knot in my stomach, and if my heart could beat I knew it would be pounding in my chest. Now that the crisis was over, I wanted to pull her into my arms and reassure her. I wanted to protect her, and never have her think for a minute I'd ever treat her with anything other than kindness, and respect.

She smiled warmly at me, "I'll be okay. I know Edward would never hurt me. It's just that sometimes things remind me and old habits die hard."

"Esme, I'm sorry-" Before I could continue, I was stopped by the most wonderful sensation in the world. Esme put her arms around me and buried her head against my chest. The entire world stopped. I could have stood there holding her forever.

"Carlisle, you have nothing to be sorry about," replied her gentle voice that was muffled against my chest. She pulled back and looked up at me. It was as if she could see right through me. "Not your fault. You can't be there to save everyone all the time. Anyway, Edward needs you. Go talk to him and I'll straighten up."

There was no way I was going to part from her then, and she certainly wasn't going to clean up the house by herself. "Well, I have a better idea. The house can wait. I think we could all use a bit of fresh air. Why don't we go to the lake? Jack Norton told me that there's a free concert up there every Friday. I have no idea if they are any good, but I think it would be worth the chance. What do you say? Would you like a trip out?"

"I don't know," Esme hesitated, "Do you think I'm really ready?"

"I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think so," I replied brightly.

"Give me five minutes to straighten my clothes and to find those dark glasses and I'll meet you and Edward at the car."

As Esme gracefully maneuvered around the debris, and I headed outside to talk to Edward, I realized several things:

First, I was undeservedly blessed to have such an angel in my life. Second, I was utterly, amazingly, and hopelessly in love with her. And third, I was terrified beyond belief that she didn't feel the same about me.


	5. Author's Note

Hi folks,

This is just a brief note to let my reader know that I haven't abandoned this story. There are two major things going on right now:

1. I just got a new job

2. I broke a finger on my left hand so I can only type with one.

I swear there will be more story, I'm just having technical difficulties right now.

Pel


	6. Chapter 6

"_I lost the sunshine and roses, I lost the heavens of blue…"_

The three of us, Edward, Esme and I, sat at the top of a bluff away from the crowd as we listed to the music drifting upwards from Lakeside Park. Edward and Esme sat on a blanket near the edge, while I rested against a nearby tree. I had thought that Esme would be fine around the people below. After several months she had shown no signs of being ravenous the way Edward had after he had been. It seemed that it would be fine to chance Esme being among the crowd, but on the drive over Edward talked me into keeping to the bluff. So now the three of us sat watching the sun going down, listening to the music.

"_I lost the beautiful rainbow, I lost the morning dew…"_

My colleague, Dr. Jack Norton, had suggested that an evening of music might be "just what the doctor ordered" to sooth tension in my family. Jack was the father of six and the grandfather of double that, so it seemed that he might actually know what he was talking about. Given that I had come home to a blazing row, it had seemed like a good idea at the time; only now, it seemed to be working entirely too well.

"_I lost the angel who gave me, summer the whole winter through…"_

Edward and Esme were clearly enjoying each others' company, humming to the music. Every so often Edward would touch Esme's arm, lean over and say something to her. Then, Esme would smile and occasionally giggle in response, which in turn elicited a broad, lopsided grin from Edward. I tried to distract myself with the music that was floating up over the top of the hill, but at the moment I was seriously considering the murder of Irving Berlin. The music of the Berlin was the chief item on the evening's program, and every ballad seemed to tear at my emotions that had once been so well checked.

"_I lost the gladness, that turned into sadness, When I lost you!"_

I found myself retreating more and more into numbness. It was obvious to any fool that I was losing my "son" to my "wife" and that there was nothing an honorable man could or should do about that situation. Edward was no more my real son than Esme was my real wife. Any feelings of jealously, resentment, or sadness on my part just had to stay buried. There was simply no other way around it. I winced just barely considering the lost possibilities.

"Something wrong, Carlisle?" Edward asked, suddenly distracted from his precious conversation with Esme. I was obviously failing at keeping my thoughts to myself.

"Nothing, not really," I lied, "Just thinking about a situation with a patient at the hospital."

Edward eyed me dubiously.

"Well, don't sit there brooding," said Esme, with a warm smile, "Come over here and listen to the music with us. I think you'd actually like Berlin if you gave it half a chance. It's not like it's jazz."

For a moment I weakened, and was about to sit next to her when the bandleader below grabbed the microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, that was _When I Lost You_, the last of our Berlin songs for the evening. The boys and I thought we'd pick up the pace a bit with a little something you can move to. So, put on your dancing shoes and get ready to Jitterbug and Charleston!"

Just what I needed, a musical shift to a genre I not only hated, but that also left me clueless in the realm of dance steps. I could easily manage a waltz, but these New Age dances were beyond me. I forced a smile and said, "You and Edward enjoy the music, I think I'll take a walk."

I looked back over my shoulder as I made my way down a nearby path. I wished I hadn't. I could see Esme teaching a delighted Edward how to do the Jitterbug, or was it the Charleston. No matter, I turned quickly, unable to bear the site of them holding hands. It reminded me of earlier that evening when my whole world seemed to crash in.

It had all started back at the house when the fight concluded. The way that Esme and Edward looked into each others' eyes, like they were looking into each others' souls, and then Edward holding Esme's hands and helping her to her feet. There was a connection there, invisible yet tangible nonetheless. It was the moment I knew I was desperately in love with Esme, and at the same time I saw how that it could never be. Then, all the way to the park they chatted with each other like an intended couple eager to know everything about each other. They were sharing intimate details of their lives that they had previously kept to themselves, or only shared with me.

Now that I was far enough away, I could actually think freely for the first time this evening. I was so intent in my thoughts, now that I was free to think them, that I nearly tripped over two young girls trying to catch fireflies. More infuriating than anything else, was that until now, I didn't have the chance to think about what had transpired today without alerting Edward. Back at the bluff, I realized I was doing a mediocre job at best, because now and again Edward would look over at me quizzically. I knew he was getting glimpses, but not the whole picture. I doubled my resolve; I wouldn't allow that to happen. I couldn't do that to him; it wouldn't be fair. I would be the gentleman and step out of the way…again.

History, my history, was repeating itself. I was losing another chance at love because of my own ineptitude in realizing what I had before it was lost to me. What a precious gift Esme was, all those nights talking together on the porch swing and I was too dim-witted to perceive my own feelings My mind wandered back to my life before I was changed, and how I had lost my first love from my own inaction.

"Did you hear, Carlisle? Elisabeth Smythe is betrothed to David Wilkins." My father's words cut like a dagger to the heart. I almost dropped the bucket of water that I had been carrying. "I just spoke with Wilkins. The dowry's all settled. Fine match it will be. She's a good, sweet-tempered, girl and he's a hardworking craftsmen. They'll do well together."

My heart stopped. Elisabeth? My Elisabeth? The girl who stayed for tea whenever she delivered the grain from her father's mill, the girl who would chat with me after church each Sunday, the girl whom I had desired since we both were six. David Wilkins, it couldn't be; he was a widower with a young daughter who was nigh onto thirty, and Elisabeth was just seventeen.

"Father," I queried, "Is this not a bit sudden? I do not recall there hearing any talk of them as being intended for each other."

My father looked at me with his usual disdain. Once again, I had disappointed him in some manner, though I knew not what. "Of course you have heard no talk. Are you daft, boy? There would be no talk of any kind about Miss Elisabeth of any kind or this wedding wouldn't be happening. Her reputation is as pure as--- Well, you'd be lucky to get such a girl yourself if you ever get your head out of the clouds and make something of your life. There is much evil in this world, son. If you would only stop to help me---"

"I am sorry, father. Forgive me, I spoke in haste." I replied, eager to end the conversation. I knew what he would have pointed out if he continued. David Wilkins was an established man in the community. He had his own carpentry shop that was quite successful. He had a life to offer Elisabeth, whereas I, the minister's son who had balked at joining his father's profession in the hope of being allowed to go to university and study medicine, had nothing other than myself to offer.

My father's next words did nothing to ease my heavy heart, "Make yourself useful, Carlisle, and run over to Mr. Smythe and tell him that I have just finished talking with Mr. Wilkins and I will be happy to perform the ceremony in a fortnight as discussed."

I felt like a dead man walking to the gallows on the road to the Smythe's farm. I didn't want to get there quicker than need be, but waiting was not going to stave off the inevitable.

When I arrived at the Smythe's farm, it couldn't have been worse. Only Elisabeth was there and I had to face her. Unable to look her in the eye, I barely managed to mumble the message from my father. If only I had spoken of my feelings to her, none of this would be happening. There might have been a chance if I had just spoken up, but now, it was too late.

"Carlisle, are you not happy for me? Why will you not look upon me? Have I done something to offend you?" Elisabeth asked before I could turn to go having spoken intended words of comfort that served only to cut me like daggers.

"No, you have done nothing. It is nothing," I lied, "just some things my father said are weighing on my mind."

"We've always been great friends, that shan't stop now just because I am to be married. You can come to the house and visit David and me. Nothing will change, you will see."

I managed some sort of feeble pleasantries as a response before I turned to go home, alone on a roadway with only haunting thoughts of what would never be mine as company.

My heart broke a fortnight later when I watched them marry. I thought it was the worst I would ever feel in my life; that nothing could ever be worse than watching my love be wed to another. I was wrong. A month after the wedding, plague ran rampant through our village. So many died: the young, the old, the weak. No household was spared. Within a week the town I knew had fewer than half its inhabitants, including Elisabeth.

Despair is having your love die in your arms and knowing you were too much of a coward to let her know how you felt.

Nearly three hundred years later and I was now losing a chance at love again. Only this time, fighting for what I wanted would mean hurting Edward, and I couldn't do that. And who was to say that Esme even returned my feelings? She and Edward were only a few years apart in age. She had so much more in common with Edward than a relic born three centuries ago. No, I had had my chance and I had wasted it again.

The familiar voice of Jack Norton suddenly shook me back to the present. "So I see you took my advice and came, but where is your charming wife? I'd like to meet her."

I put on a brave face and answered his question, "They're just at the top of this path. I took a bit of a break. They are playing some dance music and I'm not much of a dancer, so Esme is teaching Edward a few steps."

"Well, it certainly seems like they are getting on better than they were. See, Carlisle, as I said, a little relaxation is good for everyone. It soothes the soul. Although, sometimes the very young don't appreciate that." Jack chuckled, smiling broadly as he wiped his balding head, "My granddaughters got a little bored with the music tonight, and decided that leading their poor old granddad on a hike uphill was far more interesting."

I grimaced at Jack's commentary about relaxation. It had, after all, worked to perfection, only Edward was the recipient and not me.

"I have two of my granddaughters here with me, Penelope and Regina. Did you see them? They ran up ahead of me. Penelope's a bit too precocious for her age always spouting off about something or another, and Regina follows blithely along."

I realized that they must have been the girls I saw earlier and nearly ran into, and that their current path would land them right on top of where Edward and Esme were. "They're just up the path a bit, chasing fireflies, I think. You know if we walk up a bit we ought to catch them and I can introduce you to Esme and Edward."

"Sounds like an excellent plan," replied Jack as we slowly meandered up the path.

I hadn't noticed how steep the path was. It was nothing to a vampire, but for a man in his fifties, like Jack, it was a bit of a struggle. As we walked, Jack continued giving me fatherly advice on my family. He had just been extolling the virtues of being a good listener when suddenly two little girls, whom I imagined to be Penelope and Regina came running down towards us.

The younger of the two wearing a crisp pinafore with an "R" embroidered on the front said excitedly, "Grandpa, there's a lady up here who's sick. The man who's with her said we should leave them alone."

Before I could say anything, the other one, whom I guessed was Penelope, spoke, "I don't think she's sick at all. I hardly even bumped into her---"

"Well she doubled over when you ran into her trying to catch that firefly!" retorted Regina.

"Grandpa, she did not!" protested Penelope, "I said I was sorry, but she tried to grab me, and then that man with her grabbed her first. He said she wasn't feeling well, but I think he made it up. Anyway, if anyone got hurt, it was me. That lady has shins made of granite. I fell over and cut my knee."

I feared what awaited me at the top of the hill. I could only imagine what just happened. Penelope's version sounded exactly like what would occur if Esme were tempted by human blood. I silently thanked God that Edward seemingly was quick thinking and averted what could have been abject disaster.

I was about to say something to divert attention when Jack intervened. "Penelope, really that's a bit far-fetched, not to mention impolite. The two of you, not another word. Wait for me at the bottom of the path."

"But Grandpa!" interjected Penelope.

"Not another word Penelope. You and Regina hop to it, tout suite!"

Regina seemed to sense that Jack meant business, grabbed Penelope's hand, and dragged her down the hill.

Jack then turned to me, "I'm sorry, Carlisle. It seems that my granddaughters have forgotten their manners a bit this evening. Perhaps if they were looking where they were going and behaving in a more ladylike fashion we wouldn't be hearing this nonsense. Please see to Esme, I sincerely hope she's only had the wind knocked out of her bit. Please convey to her my apologies on behalf of my granddaughters."

"Not at all, Jack. I'm sure it's exactly what you said; it's just that the wind has been knocked out of her. Please don't think anything of it. I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow." I shook Jack's hand and he departed down the hill.

As soon as Jack disappeared around a bend in the path I sprinted to the top of the hill. Esme was sitting on a tree stump with her shoulders hunched over and her face buried in her hands. Edward was behind her gently rubbing her shoulders saying quietly, "It's not your fault. It was too soon to come out like this. Don't blame yourself; you didn't hurt her. You stopped yourself, I was holding you back, but you weren't struggling too hard. You stopped yourself before anything happened."

I didn't know what do. I felt utterly helpless and responsible. It was my insistence on coming out that had put Esme into this position. Edward had warned me, but I was too stubborn to listen. Clearly he remembered better than me how strong the early bloodlust was, or perhaps I hadn't forgotten, and just deluded myself because I wanted to please Esme with an evening out.

I didn't know what to say, the words just spilled out, "Esme, Edward's right. It's not your fault. It's mine. I knew better and didn't listen. I---"

"Please just take me home." said Esme, who had finally looked up. Her face was stricken with the terror of what could have happened. "Please just take me home."

Her look pierced my heart. I wondered how many times in one evening a heart could be broken? If only I could undo the last fifteen minutes. I'd have stopped the two girls running up the hill to spare Esme this.

"Carlisle," asked Edward tentatively, "Do you want to stay with her while I bring the car as close as I can so we don't have to be near any people?"

I nodded, feeling more helpless as Edward set off to do the only thing of use. After a moment I sat beside Esme. She had been wordlessly looking off into the distance since she last spoke. I wouldn't have blamed her if she had berated me for putting her in such emotional peril. Instead, she did what I least expected. She buried her head in my shoulder and put her arms around my neck and said, "They were only innocent children, how could I?"

"But you didn't, you didn't." I pleaded as I cupped the back of Esme's head and stroked her hair.

As her body shuddered, and she cried tearless sobs, I heard her whisper, "I'm sorry for disappointing you."

My heart shattered again knowing how dry eyes didn't adequately convey sorrow. She wasn't the only one sobbing. Esme, torn with grief at what had happened, didn't notice she wasn't the only one who wished for real tears.


End file.
